Milton got up and went for a run. He followed North Western Street along the line of the railway, noting the businesses that had been established in the arches. He saw the Mancunian Boxing Club and thought of Elijah Warriner. Milton hadn’t been back in the United Kingdom since he had travelled to Vegas for JaJa’s first fight overseas. He had been looking forward to watching it at the casino, but events had conspired to make that impossible. He had caught up with the bout on YouTube in Amsterdam instead and had watched proudly as the young Londoner had stopped his opponent in the sixth round. The boxing commentariat were suggesting that Elijah would be fighting for a world title within three years; Milton knew the boy and, aware of how driven he was, he would have abbreviated that a little. He thought about that as he pounded the pavement and it gave him pleasure. He’d done bad things in his life, and now he was trying to balance those out by doing good. Elijah had been one of his successes.

He continued southeast and made his way through Ardwick and Belle Vue and then into Longsight and Levenshulme, allowing his concerns about the day ahead to float away as he concentrated on his breathing and the slap of his feet on the pavement.

* * *

Milton returned to the Airbnb, where he showered and changed into the clothes he had been wearing yesterday. Ziggy was staying in this flat, too, and, when Milton emerged, he saw that he had set himself up with his equipment. All three laptops were arranged on the kitchen table.

“Jackson’s on the move,” Ziggy said. “Left his house fifteen minutes ago.”

“Early for him.”

“Yes,” Ziggy said. “Very.”

Milton looked over Ziggy’s shoulder at the laptop that showed the location of the transponder on Jackson’s car. He was just passing through Partington. “The warehouse?”

“I think so.”

They watched as the flashing dot merged onto the M60.

“Why go early?” Milton said.

“He just got a phone call,” Ziggy said. “The number is registered to a Francis McMahon. His name came up when I was digging into Jackson’s business—I think he’s part of his crew.”

“Play it back.”

Milton listened to the conversation between Jackson and McMahon. “Who’s O’Sullivan?”

“Don’t know. The name’s never come up before.”

“Keep watching him.”

Milton went out into the corridor and banged on the door of the adjacent apartment. Hicks opened the door.

“Jackson’s on the move,” Milton said.

“You want to go now?”

“Maybe. Get ready—get Chase, too.”

“Give me five,” Hicks said. He closed the door.

Milton went back to stand behind Ziggy. The red dot had just turned into the industrial estate.

“Can we look at the cameras?”